There’s the kid who goes to school every day, despite the bully who shoves him to the pavement at recess.
There’s the father who works three jobs every day to make sure his family has food and warm winter jackets and a place to call home.
There’s the teacher who stands in front of her students every day because she believes in the future.
And there’s the homeless college student who sleeps in his car in a Walmart parking lot every night and never misses a single class.
All of these people are heroes in my book.
Sharon Olds writes about a lost hero . . .
For and Against Knowledge
(for Christa MacAuliffe)
by: Sharon Olds
what did she see? Strapped in,
tilted back, so her back was toward
the planet she was leaving, feeling the Gs
press her with their enormous palm, did she
weep with excitement in the roar, and in
the lens of a tear glimpse for an instant
a disc of fire? If she were our daughter,
would I think about it, how she had died, was she
torn apart, was she burned—the way
I have wondered about the first seconds
of our girl’s life, when she was a cell a
cell had just entered, she hung in me
a ball of grey liquid, without nerves,
without eyes or memory, it was
she, I love her. So I want to slow it
down, and take each millisecond
up, take her, at each point,
in my mind’s arms—the first, final
shock hit, as if God touched
a thumb to her brain and it went out, like a mercy killing,
and then, when it was no longer she,
the flames came—as we burned my father
when he had left himself. Then the massive bloom un-
buckled and jumped, she was vaporized back
down to the level of the cell. And the spirit—
I have never understood the spirit,
all I know is the shape it takes,
the wavering flame of flesh. Those
who know about the spirit may tell you
where she is, and why. What I want
to do is find every cell,
slip it out of the fishes’ mouths,
ash in the tree, soot in our eyes
where she enters our lives, I want to play it
backwards, burning jigsaw puzzle
of flesh, suck in its million stars
to meet, in the sky, boiling metal
fly back
together, and cool.
Pull that rocket
back down
surely to earth, open the hatch
and draw them out like fresh-born creatures,
sort them out, family by family, go
away, disperse, do not meet here.
Most people of a certain age will remember the day the Challenger exploded. Those astronauts riding the elevator up to the cockpit, Christa MacAuliffe among them. The countdown and takeoff. And then, 73 seconds later, the heartbreak. Like the JFK assassination or Hiroshima bombing, it is a moment that changed the world forever.
Today, the United States celebrated Veterans Day. Originally, November 11 was Armistice Day, marking the end of World War I; in 1919, President Woodrow Wilson made it a day of commemoration for all veterans of the Great War. Then, in 1954, President Dwight D. Eisenhower signed a bill that officially turned November 11 into Veterans Day, honoring all who have served in the U.S. military, war or peacetime.
I spent this Veterans Day at the library for an annual employee inservice. Lots of presentations and activities. But, at the beginning of the day, the director of the library acknowledged employees who served in the military. (There were two.)
Most military veterans I know don’t really speak about their times in the service. My dad never talked about his time in the army during the Korean War. My Uncle Larry never discussed his military service in Korea either. I’ve taught Iraq and Afghanistan veterans. Several of them wrote about their experiences for assignments, but I can't recall a single conversation with any of them about their time in the military.
Heroes are quiet. They don't do what they do for recognition or medals. Usually, they feel uncomfortable in the spotlight. If asked, they usually say something along the lines of "I was just doing my job" or "I was just doing what I had to do."
So, today, I salute all military veterans and unsung heroes out there. I am grateful for how they made/make this world a better place, day after day.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for this Veterans Day, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
In honor of Veterans Day, write a poem to or about a veteran. To avoid falling into cliche, write about a veteran doing something completely normal--grocery shopping or pumping gas. Aim to show something about this veteran without mentioning war, guns, or a bombing.
Uncle Shorty Never Talked About Pearl Harbor
by: Martin Achatz
He talked about carrots he grew
in his garden every summer,
fat and sweet as apples, or
about his son with CP who
smoked cigarettes in a long
Cruella de Vil holder and stomped
his feet with laughter when
someone told him a dirty joke, or
about Aunt Tillie's lemon bars
she brought to every family
shindig involving food (and they
all involved food). But when
I returned from Honolulu, mentioned
standing on the Arizona Memorial,
staring down at the wreckage below,
Uncle Shorty just nodded, looked off
at his rows of tomatoes and peppers,
his lips moving in silence, as if
saying the names of buddies he lost
December 7. Pudge. Junior. Piehole.
Alfalfa. Sweeney. Little John.
The green beans hadn't done well,
he noticed. Not enough rain.
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